


Love And Croquet

by Nasyat



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Maxwell Is Artistic And Reserved, Obsession, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wilson Doesn't Get It Per Usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-16 07:43:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14160027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nasyat/pseuds/Nasyat
Summary: Each wants in his own way... A rough, Google-assisted translation of my Russian fanfic. Inspired by words: sketch, shadow, desire.





	Love And Croquet

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to share my Russian works with the English-speaking fans, and this (plus the sequel I will translate and post a bit later) seem like the easiest ones at hand... So I ran it through Google Translate and then did the fixing-upping to the resulting text. Hope I didn't miss anything crucial; I could've. Enjoy!
> 
> Original: https://ficbook.net/readfic/6689252

Sometimes, Maxwell imagines that he and Wilson are playing croquet. A light breeze ruffles the flaps of his jacket as he aims, with a hammer on a long handle, to a ball - pinkish-faded, out of rubber - in order to drive it into the crooked gates. It's a garden croquet, and they're in a garden; Wilson rests his hand on the hammer and carefully examines the juxtaposition of balls on their small field. He is quite good at this game, and the short man smiles, because he just hit Maxwell's yellow ball with his blue one, knocking it from the intended trajectory. It’s hot outside, so he unbuttons the collar of his shirt slightly, pulling it aside. With his thin, old hands shaking, Maxwell misses the ball. Wilson laughs. He did not wear his black sweatshirt underneath, and to Maxwell this is an unbearable sight, akin to a pornographic one.

Sometimes, Wilson imagines that he and Maxwell are eating croquettes. Deep-fried remnants of a holiday dinner - a New England recipe, these balls are incredibly delicious and fragrant. Tender meat with a crispy crust gives way under your teeth, squirting a little juice. They cooked a batch with mashed potatoes as well (Wilson generously boiled as many as two pans, which was way too much for the two of them), according to the recipe of Maxwell's mother from Good-Old England. Wilson feeds Maxwell from a fork and, despite the other’s protests, wipes the man’s mouth with a napkin himself. The sight of those full, food-glistening lips seems almost indecent to him...

Maxwell wants Wilson. For some reason, even when he was under the control of the Throne, when he was in the position of unlimited power and Shadows whispered terrible, cruel - in their unconsciousness, things into his ear, he never dared to touch the scientist. Didn’t even dare to emerge from the dark and mock him. Maxwell convinced himself that he was not interested in Wilson, and that he did not pick from the ground after all, but the desire burned him from within with an endothermic flame. He watched him, but persecuted the obscene thoughts and the scientist himself, until the other found his frail body in the hall, lonely and lowly, impotent under the oppression of forces that were beyond his comprehension.

Later, Wilson will tell him that he understands. That he, too, felt it, and that it was Shadows', and not his own will. Maxwell doesn’t say anything about this, although he knows that it would be the last thing to do in this case, to shift the blame from himself. Yes, the power corrupts, but he acted as an intermediary, it was him who wanted... a new toy. He was the one to blame, absolutely and peremptorily. But let Wilson believe otherwise, at least.

He secretly made himself a small album out of papyrus and thin wooden planks that were covered in leather. He knew that Wilson would not approve of such waste, but Maxwell felt an almost physical need to somehow sublimate the fantasies of his heated body and mind.

Not to say that he was a great artist, but Maxwell could, and loved drawing from life - especially in those days when, as a naive magician, he just started out with Charlie at the Magic tent during a seasonal fair. Rabbits; it was mostly rabbits that he sketched on his knee in the late, dark evenings, illuminated only by the light of a lonely kerosene lamp. Charlie praised him...

He began with sketches of nature. A stump, where Wilson was cleaning his shoes in an obscure attempt to preserve the remnants of decency; Maxwell drew out every blade of grass at the roots, every twig that began to grow from the cut, with the fullest precision that he could achieve...

The river, where Wilson was doing the laundry (he was passing by and inadvertently caught a sight of the other's bare, narrow back, just a glimpse, but Maxwell was so shaken that he had to kindle a fire and look thoughtlessly at the flame, trying to rid his head of all extraneous thoughts, crossing his legs tightly). He was like a madman in his all-absorbing idée fix with this scientist, who acted surprisingly restrained and ascetic, if one were to take into account his hardy body, which was blazing with life - agile and somewhat stocky. He never took off his shirt in someone else's presence, he tried not to bare his feet if it wasn’t necessary, even; although, perhaps, it was not so much a gentleman's nature, but his phenomenal frostiness.

Then Maxwell moved over to things: Wilson's ax, razor, shoes... He knew it himself, that he was obsessed, but could not stop. He sketched the shoes from different views and at different angles, while his companion slept in the tent, and one day... One day Maxwell captured on paper Wilson himself, alive and sleeping on the straw roll; him, and not the disembodied images, traces of his self, remaining on the garments and in the places where he was spending his time. This was scandalous, in fact, and wrong in terms of morality, but Maxwell could not resist and quickly, abruptly, with shaking hand, sketched the other’s sleeping form. Wilson snored, and Maxwell took off, hiding the album in his bosom and running from the crime scene like some thief or a murderer (although who said he wasn’t one?)

***

Maxwell got so carried away, sketching the corny monkey figurine which Wilson cut out from a wooden bar just for fun, that he did not notice the approach of the scientist. And when that mop-headed shadow hung over him like a bad omen, Maxwell realized that it was too late to run.

“Wow,” said Wilson with a hint of a smile in his voice. He himself did not know how to draw, so he treated the fine arts with a certain degree of respect - a fair amount of it, and with trepidation almost. Maxwell slowly put away the impromptu pencil and closed the album, apparently calm on the outside, but cringing internally into a lump of nerves.

“What do you want, Higgsbury?” He asked as casually as possible. Wilson ignored the rude question and reached for the album.

“Can I take a look?”

“I’d rather not...” But Wilson had already fished the book out of his fingers. Looking the thing over, the man hummed approvingly and opened it. Maxwell sat quietly, unable to move, only hoping that Wilson would not study the album thoroughly. The unsuspecting other carelessly flipped through the pages.

“What a peculiar thing,” he said graciously, looking at the drawing of birds pecking at the bait from underneath (his) rabbit trap. Maxwell mentally crossed his fingers in high hopes that the scientist would finish with it already and return the album, but Wilson just turned another page, and made a surprised sound.

“And what's that? Did you draw me when I was asleep?” He laughed gaily. “You scamp.”

Maxwell kept silent, thoroughly ashamed, while Wilson considered a rough, but expressive sketch. Summing it up in his head, the shorter grunted with satisfaction.

“You know, you could've just asked me to pose for you. I wouldn't refuse.”

In reality, Wilson wants Maxwell, too. Only he doesn’t quite realize this. He likes to "cajole" to the sullen old man, to, quite ridiculously, manage heavy things for him, like firewood or a cart of stones; he especially likes to watch him stretch in the morning, so that his shirt gets slightly out of his trousers, elegant and sensual, and it feels unbearable for Wilson - the onslaught of emotions. When he first heard this low, deep voice over the radio, it was as if a he was doused over. Maxwell (Wilson did not know that it was him yet) was singing, and a short man felt an inexplicable feeling in the pit of his stomach, as viscid as the song itself. The feeling was old in the essence, as old as the mankind, it was just that the scientist never came across it before. He did not know what to do with himself; the Voice appeared on different frequencies, still as hoarse and seductive, reading out advertisements, or excerpts from the plays... Wilson felt as if he was going insane.

Maxwell looked at him through the eyelashes, slightly lowering his head. Wilson smiled and held out his hand.

“Give me your pencil; I want to draw you something.”

The man silently dug in the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out the writing tool. Wilson took it in his hand and sat down in front of him. He carefully scribbled the lead over paper, looking back and forth between the sheet and Maxwell; there was no doubt that the other was drawing him. Maxwell, however, was staring at the "artist” with either fear or skepticism. Finally, Wilson finished and handed the album over to him.

Maxwell looked at the more than a caricature image and shifted his gaze at Wilson. The other snorted, and then began to laugh full-force.

“Well, how do you like it?” Through the laughter, he asked.

“What is this...” Maxwell said with a stony expression on his face, and Wilson tapped his finger on the drawing for emphasis, in which someone with a huge, crooked nose, goggly eyes and angrily furrowed eyebrows, a cucumber body and limbs like sticks, performed some circus number.

“It's you-u-u,” Wilson was almost tearing up from laughter, and Maxwell did not know whether to get offended or laugh with the young man.

"It's terrible, Wilson," he said, confused. The other choked on his senseless merriment and leaned forward.

“Did you just call me by my first name?” Maxwell bit his tongue and hunched. But the scientist just broke into a joyful smile.

“It’s fine, you can just tear out this sheet, we’ll use the paper for fire...”

“No,” Maxwell said as-a-matter-of-factly, and began to study the drawing attentively, which was deliberately ridiculous, but honestly - not so bad. Wilson smiled, holding his hands in his lap; now he looked almost embarrassed. Maxwell carefully smoothed the sheet and closed the album.

“I can draw myself like that, too,” Wilson suggested shyly, and Maxwell laughed, imagining the picture.

“Don’t bother.”

“Then you draw me. Over there, by the pond, is a picturesque glade; make it like I kind of sat down on the grass and thought about something...”

A smile danced on Maxwell's lips, but when he got up to proceed to the aforementioned place, and Wilson carefully, in a sociable way, held him by the waist, the man shuddered shyly. The hand was, oddly enough, warm, and Maxwell imagined it descending lower, even lower...

He could not have known about this, but Wilson was imagining the very same thing.


End file.
